Needle and Skein: slip, slip, knit
by Vilinye
Summary: Rory Williams misses his daughter too.


When River brought us home after Demon's Run, Amy started knitting. Her mum Tabetha had tried to teach Amelia when she was younger, but she never got beyond horribly misshapen potholders used for bowties when playing dress-up.

She was knitting all the time: at breakfast, watching telly, making meals. On her good days, she made baby hats, measured to fit her memory of Melody's small head nestled into her arms. On bad days, she made hats for a child in primary school, like the girl she had seen in the suit. On her worst days, she made ones for a grown woman. When she had enough hats to outfit a whole cancer ward, she learned how to make sweaters and mittens, a matching three-piece set for cold days.

The little ones sat on the changing table Amy insisted we buy, the medium ones in the drawers, and the full-sized ones were stuffed in the back of the closet, packed tight with mothballs.

* * *

><p>"What do you think of this Rory? " She held it up. "I tried to make it so she'll have room to grow into it." The hat was white with an intricately embroidered TARDIS on the side. It's so small. I think back to those moments with Melody in my arms. Are babies really that small? "I don't think babies can see details well. They like strong contrasts."<p>

Her next one, even smaller, is yellow and black with a pompom bumblebee on the top.

* * *

><p>I run into Tabethia while picking up some yarn. "How are you doing?" she asks.<p>

"Fine." I nod. We never told her the whole truth; I can't spill it here between the shelves.

"That's a lot of yarn."

"Amy's taken up knitting. "

"Amy, knitting?" she laughed." I can't see her doing that."

I shrug. "New hobby." I brush past her for the queue, trying to avoid further questions.

* * *

><p>Jeff comes round for a pint. I don't have a good enough excuse to send him away, so I shove some half-finished hats under a cushion so he won't ask what's going on.<p>

Wouldn't you know it, but that he picks that very cushion to throw at me while he's ranting about his new girlfriend? "What's this?"

"Amy's work."

"Why?"

I pick the first answer that comes to mind. "Charity" I make a mental note to remind Amy of this before someone asks again.

* * *

><p>The Doctor better bring Melody home before I have to run all the way to Holland for more yarn. Amelia's bought out half the shops in a 50 km radius.<p>

* * *

><p>River, your mummy made you a doll today. It looks just like you, with a belt ,a grey dress and boots. No gun, though; she doesn't like that. Instead, she gave you a tiny lipstick made from a pen. A native American totem, giving a child guidance for their life.<p>

I think Amy slept with it one night, because I found it under our bed the next morning. I picked it up and put it back in the crib.

* * *

><p>I wonder what the women at the shops think of us. She'd buy diapers and formula one day, a training bra and crayons the next, along with a complete set of parenting books from infant to adult.<p>

* * *

><p>When we came back the second time, she couldn't bear to look at the tiny hats anymore. I suggested donating them to the preemie ward. Amy didn't say anything for a long time, just looked at me.<p>

I pulled strings so we could hand them out in person, instead of dropping them off with the front desk. In the first few rooms, she didn't look up from the floor, robotically handing the sweaters to exhilarated parents. Just off the end of the hall was a woman dressed in East Indian clothing and holding a tiny baby.

I nudged Amy's shoulders. "Come on, you'll scare them."

Amy lifted her eyes, staring at the tiny baby. "Small. So small." Without meaning to, she reached towards the baby's face. "Please…can I hold her?"

The tone, as much as the words, connected the two women. She nodded and laid the baby in Amy's arms.

Amy bent her head, red hair dangling just above the baby's fists. She talked softly, so softly I could not hear the words, but slowly they slipped into a song. "Tick tock, goes the clock, he cradled and he rocked her, tick tock, goes the clock, even for the Doctor."

I laid my hand on her shoulder. "Amy, I think we should go now."

She turned and gave the baby back to the mother. "Thank you."

We left the rest of the clothes at the front desk.

* * *

><p>Amy took the last sweater she made before we left for Berlin and thread by thread she unraveled it. Bright golden yarn, the gold of Mel's regeneration, tumbled to the floor. "Rory, bring me the trash bin."<p>

I set it by her feet, silently watching it fill.

River, wherever you are, I will always think of your hair as unraveled yarn.

* * *

><p>Amy took the softest yarn, knitted six blue shapes and made a stuffed TARDIS. "Mels liked this, maybe Melody will too."<p>

"Melody isn't coming back." I said, tasting the sour strangeness of the words. _The fathers eat sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge,_ as a television evangelist said once when we were flipping through the channels. Did he ever suspect it could be the other way around, with the parents tasting the grapes of their children?

"She's our Melody, our daughter, even if she's also Mels and River. Our daughter, no matter what her name is."

I think only one person can claim that role at a time. Melody, I'm your father, but I can't teach you about boys or how to ride a bike. Your first day—River's first day- you stole a bike from the Gestapo and killed a man before curing him. I can't teach you anything, and I'm sorry."

_The Doctor will find your daughter, and care for her whatever the cost. And I know that._

River, couldn't you have given us more spoilers than that? I know that you don't want to ruin the timelines, but would a yes or no destroy the world?

* * *

><p>Amy set aside the needles and picked up an art pencil. She tried to draw Melody, but all the pictures went wrong at the face. Our trash bin was full of images of swaddled infants in baskets, facelessly staring at someone just off the page. So she took childhood pictures of Mels and set them above the changing table. "I don't have a picture of her. I don't have any pictures of her. Not as our Melody, not ever as our friend River Song." Amy reared her head, eyes blazing. "I don't want another kid."<p>

My eyes must have disagreed, because she replied firmly. "No. No more children. Madame Kovarion took my baby and I'll never see her again. I'd never be able to look at a son or daughter without wondering if that's what Melody would have looked like at that age."

I don't say anything, but I hold her yarn while she knits another pair of mittens. She still can't knit well, but it's one of those thing stereotypical good parents do. Maybe that's why she's so obsessed with it.

* * *

><p>She made four blue tam 'o shanters. "One for the Doctor, one for River, and one each for you and me."<p>

"River will probably shoot them off our heads anyway."

She gave me the look. "You can sleep on the couch tonight."

I sat outside the locked bedroom door all night listening to her cry.

Amy, Amy, you can't stitch this one back together.

Amy, you can't sew time.


End file.
